


The Dance Revived

by TSiLvY



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Based on a Tumblr Post, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Arrangement (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but I promise I did read it a bunch of times, don't at me they be like that, not beta read as in English is my second language, they're living together but they're also courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27950444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TSiLvY/pseuds/TSiLvY
Summary: After the failed Apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley live together but they still occasionally run into/rescue each other while doing independent blessings/temptations around the world.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Valparaíso, Chile

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment based on [ this](https://tsilvy.tumblr.com/post/636357488752640000/headcanon-after-the-failed-apocalypse-aziraphale) tumblr post.

_Valparaíso, Chile_

Aziraphale sits down at a table in front of the nice little shop, taking his time to finish his ice-cream while enjoying the shimmer of a quiet sea in the early morning.

He has quite deserved this spot of peace today: the blessings he’s been performing were all remarkably successful, and not too showy either. Nothing big, as he and Crowley agreed sometime after settling down. Nothing that could warrant attention or disappointment from either of their former sides, anyway.

But still, when they get restless, they do their old jobs, if a revised and corrected version of them, and with no pressure from outside.

Crowley has taken to sneaking out; he stays away for a few days, then comes home looking refreshed and entirely too pleased with himself. Sometimes, Aziraphale asks; some other times, there's no need. Mostly, he really doesn’t have to know.

And occasionally, when the prayers become too many, the voices a little bit too loud, Aziraphale makes a bag, kisses Crowley on the forehead, and quietly shuts off the door of the cottage.

In hindsight, he muses as he scoops a bit of vanilla with his spoon, this trip would have been nicer to take together. Crowley would love this place. The climate, the colours, the history... He finishes his ice-cream and stands up, looking into the guide book for locations to visit, planning to bring it back home and discreetly introduce it into Crowley’s space to be skimmed through mindlessly. Tempting a demon with a vacation, he thinks with a private smile.

“Find something interesting?”

He jumps, but even before turning, the instinctual puffing up of his chest, the accelerated heartbeat at hearing that one very special voice, tell him all he needs to know.

“ _Crowley_!”

And there he is, all the wonder of him, the soft dark linen outfit, the magnificent shimmer of his hair in the sun, the way he’s just barely managing to hold back a delighted smile.

“What brings you here, angel, miss me already?”

He feels himself blush with no hope for control, because well, no, yes, Crowley is an addictive presence at best and there's no denying the way his spirits just lifted by his mere presence. It always did that to Aziraphale, unexpectedly finding his old friend again on the other side of the world, and he’d thought that living together would quell some of that excitement, but he still can’t properly function when Crowley inundates him with attention like that, when he looks at him in quite that way.

“Oh my dear, it's been barely two days,” he turns toward the sea, trying not to give away how entirely taken apart he's feeling.

“Yesss,” Crowley exhales close to his ear, hands snaking around him from behind, holding tight, chin resting on Aziraphale's shoulder. “Mmmmh.” He's breathing, deeply, deliberately, as if for the first time in a while.

_God, you’re still going so fast._

He wonders, _still_ wonders at Crowley laying all that down in front of him with no conditions, no secrets, this softness of his that he only lets Aziraphale see. And he’s hard-pressed to believe it's just for him, all for him to drink in, the way Crowley is drinking _him_ in, caution be damned, past heartbreak be damned, as if he’d been hanging right on that edge for all this time, and refuses to hold back a second longer. An exercise in trust, an example in devotion.

He's only standing there, with the weight of Crowley’s head on his shoulder, still trying to accept how much he has wanted him right there, right like this, how long he's waited to savour the unprecedented momentum of his own feeling, the knowledge that he can let his heart burst with it and nothing bad will happen, not anymore.

“Y’all right?” There's the whisper in his ear, the squeeze gentling, feather light now, and he misses the fierceness of it already.

“Verily. Very right.” He breathes, lighter than helium, equally exhilarating. “In fact, I have. Missed you. Right here in this spot. Yes.” He rests his forehead against Crowley's, smiling at the soft kiss pressed lightly right under his jaw. “What were you doing here?”

“Right.” Slowly, Crowley’s hands slide off of his sides as he saunters in front of him. “I actually do have some, uhm... business. All planned up. Tricky thing. Hate for someone to be thwarting me.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Well, I’m way too busy myself to take care of your wily deeds.”

“I see. You think you could… find a time slot around lunchtime then?”

“Lunchtime, yes! Yes.”

Blimey, that was a lot of _yes_ ’s, wasn’t it?

It’s all so new and yet beautifully familiar, and he has cherished every single moment of their time together on their own side first, in the South Downs later, but all of a sudden, he realises, it’s such, such a relief that they haven’t lost this, this thousand-year old dance transcending time and space, pulling them together again and again.

Crowley is definitely beaming now, and Aziraphale’s heart flutters as his hands are lifted to Crowley's mouth, kissed softly. He can’t remember ever being so happy, so heart-splittingly happy. “Yes.”

Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! First things first: if I need to tag anything I missed, feel free to ask.  
> 
> 
> I imagined this as a sort of prologue. There are two more half-written chapters at the moment, and since I've but a faint idea where this is going, I'd LOVE to hear your feedback. Prompts and suggestions are also very welcome.


	2. Sanremo, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a festival and mayhem is caused. Some habits are hard to shake off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one veers into a little bit of angst, but it's still kind of fluffy.

_Sanremo, Italy_

“I mean, that was the point.”

“It _wasn’t_ the point. Being seen definitely wasn’t the point, my dear,” Aziraphale says, dabbing a napkin over his mouth before standing up. The dinner was superlative, the wine even better, and yet the angel is still dwelling on that little insignificant misstep.

“Look,” Crowley says, following Aziraphale out to the restaurant hall, “you wanted to give them something to remember. I think they’re very much going to remember that.”

“I did not intend for them to remember _me_.”

They stop near the entrance, waiting for the clerk to retrieve their coats. Crowley morosely watches the angel wringing his hands, standing in that stiff posture he’s held all dinner. The fact that this trip is mostly Crowley’s fault doesn’t help.

He’s been dying to go to the festival for ages. Tight competition, live music, awkward moments: an incredible potential for messing up. The angel said no initially – there is a natural resistance in him over keeping up with the current musical tendencies, as he’d rather take a few decades to let them all sediment a little – but in the end he caved in, with the temptation of a fun time together and maybe some blessings in the crowd.

It went even better than planned, at first: they ended up actually following the competition with varying degrees of interest, then, complicit a bottomless bottle of _Vermentino_ , Crowley started tampering with the voting counters, to the general confusion of the audience, the misery of the unfortunate host, and the hysterical laughter of one angel. A dropout and a misguided accusation for plagiarism followed, all liveblogged on every major social media, of course. The drama of it all, honestly.

The tipping point was the blackout of the sound systems – is it Crowley’s fault that people don’t turn off their phones when they’re asked to? – after which they slipped out of the theatre, and the angel, unable to stop howling long enough to find a semblance of footing, parted with blessings for everyone within reach, miracling some very obvious celestial light on their way out.

And then, out on the street, a young lady accosted them, a smartphone in her hand, said “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” and proceeded to disappear behind a corner.

They never sobered quicker.

“Aziraphale, during the course of six thousand years, how many times have you been seen performing miracles?”

“That’s not the point! I’d tweak their memories. Mostly.”

“Only at first. Then you stopped caring entirely. Which is exactly what put you into the classic iconography, by the way. I was there, remember?”

“I beg to remind you that you’ve got your fair share of representations as well.”

“Precisely." Crowley hastens his steps, keeping up with Aziraphale's resolved march out of the hall and into the cold of the night. "And what happened? Nothing at all, that’s what. Nobody listens to those claims anymore, so they either turn to spiritism – which, win-win – or rationalise it somehow, or they resort to _arts_.”

“It’s different now. They have phones! They take photos with them!”

“Ah, you got the news.”

“Bugger off.”

Thrilled, he quickly kisses the bad word off of Aziraphale’s mouth, pleased to watch that pout ease just a little.

“So they took a few photos. People counterfeit photos all the time.”

“But they’re going to believe it regardless! They believe _everything_ these days. Someone says something ridiculous about a flat Earth, and there you go, flat-earthers everywhere.”

“So what does it matter that it’s real? They’re gonna believe the fake ones regardless.” A thought crosses his mind. “On second thought, these days you’re most likely to be mistaken for a superhero.”

There’s the shadow of a smile. They have reached the seafront; for a while, they listen quietly as the waves wash loud against the shore.

“Look,” Crowley says, more casual than he feels, “you want me to wipe her phone’s whole memory?”

A pause. “Would you do that?”

“’course I would. Gladly. Watch me. Be right back.”

“No, wait, wait. What if you delete something important?”

“I’m sure she has a backup.”

“Crowley, we’re not—” he lowers his voice “—we’re not turning this into a _wile_.”

He wishes he could tell whether Aziraphale is kidding, but at this point he can’t be sure.

“Y’know angel, if you’re going to spoil all the fun you could miracle that photo off yourself in the first place.”

“I’ve already done the blessings. And the holy light. And the chocolate popcorn you wanted.”

“So what? Angel?”

“I just thought I’d—” he gesticulates, in that painfully obvious way he does when he’s lying, “—take it easy.”

Crowley stops, because all of a sudden it feels like the circuit finally closed, between what Aziraphale has said and what he’s been _trying_ to say for a while now. “You—” he swallows, tries again. “You don’t have a quota.”

He makes the error of looking up, sees the angel turn very pink. Their eyes meet, Aziraphale’s suddenly very dark and very not ready to have this conversation.

“What if I do?”

“Wngh—What’s that supposed to mean?” And here Crowley’s mind does a 360, fast-forwarding all of their time together since the apocalypse, any possible mention, or maybe anything to disprove what the angel is telling him. “Wait wait wait. I’ve seen you perform miracles these days. You miracled those books inside the cottage.”

“Some of them can hardly handle transport.”

“Fixed the roof.”

“That was once.”

“And the—”

“I was keeping count, Crowley! I’ve—” he swallows “—I’ve been keeping count all the time, all right?”

Crowley is dumbfounded. Aziraphale is vibrating, he knows, with the instinct to stalk back and forth. All of a sudden, he realises, there is a comical abundance of signs, and yet, somehow, he managed to miss all of them up to this point.

“Why?”

“I don’t know?” Aziraphale looks away, barely making a sound.

 _Stupid,_ _**stupid** ,_ _STUPID_ , to think anyone could disregard a conditioning centuries old. Millennia old. He knows Aziraphale hates being stared at, judged, measured, but right now he can’t stop staring, wondering. So he resumes walking, takes a deep breath watches the sea.

“But you know you don’t have to. Right?” he says eventually. “You know you don’t need to count your miracles.”

“Some of the time, yes.” Aziraphale smiles briefly, nervously, without looking up from his perusing of the pavement.

_You don’t need to do that with me._

Quietly, he puts his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I’ll get used to it, I’m sure,” the angel says.

“I know.”

“It’s nothing worth fretting over, really.”

“Of course.”

“We’re doing everything bit by bit. I didn’t want to get noticed.”

“’s okay.”

If only Aziraphale would stop justifying himself.

Crowley would rather not throw in his two cents, add up to the judging in any way, but the shoulder under his arm is tense, and the angel has those weird ways of asking for help sometimes; Crowley wonders whether this is one of them, after all.

“We averted the apocalypse,” he says, voice even, as soothing as he dares. “We laughed in their faces. I don’t think a few miracles will tip them off.”

Shiny eyes briefly look up to the sky, an involuntary reflex the angel has had since Eden. Crowley almost kisses him again.

“No, I guess not.” Aziraphale sighs. Then, he smiles. A real one, finally, if a bit abashed. "That was silly, wasn't it?"

Crowley shakes his head. Aziraphale snuggles closer into his side, the cosy warmth of him, the whole steady softness of his corporation, and they fall into a slower, comfortable step.

“D’you want to go home?”

“Not yet," he whispers into Crowley's neck. "This is lovely.”

“Mmh.” Really, he can’t say _that_ out loud. “I’ll miracle all the popcorn myself next time, uh?”

“Never.”

Crowley grins, feels the soft press of a grateful kiss on his cheek.

 _Anytime angel_ , he thinks, a bit lightheaded. _Anytime_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a bit of context, as I'm not sure how well the joke translates, the city of Sanremo hosts a yearly music festival notorious for being an organizational nightmare where anything can happen at any given moment. Hence, the kind of place where Crowley would have the time of his life.
> 
> On another note, is that the shadow of a plot? Who knows?
> 
> Thank you for reading. Any comments are very welcome. :)


End file.
